Curriculum Vitae
by Defying.Expectations
Summary: Theodore Nott has found little solace in anything since the war's end, save for Firewhiskey. Due to happenings, he runs into the most unlikely people and places, ones that may be able to help him. Curriculum Vitae is Latin for The course of one's life.
1. And So It Begins

"One Firewhiskey," said Theodore, slapping his change upon the counter and wondering vaguely how life had brought him here: mere months ago, he would have been repulsed with the idea of entering such a crude pub. But what did it matter now? What did it matter what he did or did not do? No one cared anyway. Besides, the alcohol would taste just the same as any other place's, and that was really all that mattered to him at this point.

The barman rummaged underneath the counter for a minute, then reemerged with a bottle of whiskey in one hand and a mug in the other. He poured a generous amount of the amber liquid into the tankard, then passed it to Theodore.

"Thanks," the youth mumbled to the barman. He sat himself down at the counter, downed half the glass in one go, then clutched it in his hands, hunching over and observing the pub in an indolent fashion. He had never been inside the Hog's Head before, and it was not hard to see why. Whereas the other bars he usually visited were nice, clean, and inviting, this one was grimy, unpleasant, and nearly falling apart. But Theodore Nott was broke. He could not afford to visit such places anymore. As it was, he could barely afford tonight's Firewhiskey, cheap as it was. But over the past six months, he had learned that alcohol was the one thing in life he could always depend on, it would never change or fluctuate in any manner. Thus, he became attached. Perhaps it was not the best thing to become attached to, he knew, but when he had nothing else to cling to in life, it was the best he could do.

He hadn't always been so broke, scrounging for spare change wherever he could, occasionally picking up an odd job at some shop for a few days. There was once a time where he had been rich, even. Perhaps not as wealthy as, say, the Malfoys, but his family'd had enough money to make things fairly pleasant. He had certainly grown up rather comfortably, living in his slightly-larger house and dressing in his slightly-better robes and being surrounded by his slightly-nicer things. But during the Dark Lord's rise to power for the second time, his father had began to squander the money away. Sometimes he would say it was for his lord, sometimes it would be for the good of all purebloods – always there were reasons, but the fact was the same: they were losing money faster than they could retain it. Theodore had never thought he would need to work, or need to even try and find work; yet these days, he was doing both (the latter in the larger quantity).

Theodore had always preferred solitude, so this pretty much ruled out the idea of 'bragging' or 'showing off' when he had been better off than his present state. He'd never bothered to try and worm into Draco Malfoy's little gang (to which he could have had instant access had he wanted, his father being a Death Eater), finding them all rather stupid, and instead had become a loner. But he hadn't minded. He'd much preferred his own company to those of dim-wits. Being reclusive was more his style. At least, it had been until he learned the true meaning of the word. For last May, seven months ago, his father had been killed in the final battle between Potter and the Dark Lord.

Theodore had never been particularly close to his father. To be frank, he had never been close at all to him. Nott Senior had always been deeply absorbed in his work, his service to Lord Voldemort. He had loved his son in his own way, Theodore knew that, but they had still never connected on any level. So it had surprised Theodore how much it hurt him when his father had been killed in the fight, how much he had cared for his father, how much he had relied on simply knowing that there was always a pillar of stability in his own measly life.

His mother was dead, had been dead since before he could remember, so the passing of his father really should not have bothered him so much, he being used to this kind of thing. But it was more than the passing of his father: it was, in a way, the passing of his life. All of the people he had grown up around – his father's 'friends', as he'd known them as when he was younger; or, as he later learned, his fellow Death Eaters – were either dead as well, or locked up in Azkaban. And he'd never really depended on them either, but somehow he'd always vaguely thought that at least some of them would always be there – to do what, who knew. But really it was their presence that was significant to Theodore, and not much else.

He had never been sure whether he believed in the Death Eater cause. Honestly, he had found the whole idea behind it rather stupid. Why did this purity of blood matter so much, really? It wasn't as though you could see someone's blood on the _outside_ of them, it wasn't as though it really made much of a difference in the _person_. Not that he had ever really gotten to know a half-blood or Muggleborn, but the ones at Hogwarts – Creevey, Granger, Boot, and the rest – had never seemed so terrible.

He had just never been able to understand why so much store was placed on the blood type of a person. But on the other hand, he had never done any action that outright opposed this. His whole life had been surrounded by pureblood fanatics, why would he have? But never taking a stand on either side meant that nowadays, he was judged solely based on his father's actions, and this made for a very difficult lifestyle: trudging around from place to place, working odd jobs for never more than a week, finding solace in only the burning liquid pouring down his throat and tickling his insides.

"Refill, please," Theodore said, pushing his tankard towards the barman, who docilely picked up the glass. Theodore watched him absently as he replenished the mug with the amber fluid. The man looked rather familiar, though Theodore didn't see how this could be: he had never been inside the Hog's Head before tonight.

"What?" the barman snapped gruffly, when he noticed Theodore staring.

"Nothing," said Theodore, unintimidated. He had been surrounded by rough, unfriendly attitudes too much to be really put off by them anymore. "I was just wondering if I have met you before."

"Have you?" the barman returned, passing the newly refilled glass back to the young man.

"I don't know," came the honest response, as Theodore took a sip of his drink. "What's your name?"

"Why do want to know?"

"I'm curious. Should I not be?"

"And what is _your_ name?"

"Theodore Nott."

"Sounds familiar," the barman responded.

"Perhaps you have heard of my father," Theodore asserted dryly. "Nott senior, big-time Death Eater, was locked up in Azkaban several years ago and since then had wanted posters with his face posted in nearly every street corner – recognizing this?"

"Rings a few bells," said the barman, uncommitingly.

"And what of you?" said Theodore. "Are you going to tell me anything about yourself?"

"My name is Aberforth Dumbledore, I am the barman of the Hog's Head, and there is nothing else you could possibly want to know," replied the man.

"Dumbledore?" Theodore echoed. "Are you – erm, were you – "

"Yes, I was – my elder brother was Albus Dumbledore." A distorted smile, both wry and bitter, appeared on the old man's face.

Theodore raised his eyebrows. "Oh, really?"

"Yep. And from the blank but appraising look on your face, I'm guessing you were one of his blind and ignorant followers?"

"No, I never really liked him or disliked him – I didn't know him very well."

"All the better for you," Aberforth muttered, blackly. "You were much better off forging other good connections."

"Trust me, being a Death Eater's child is not exactly the best way to make 'good' connections."

For the first time, Aberforth cracked a grin. "Don't support their ways of thinking, eh?"

Theodore shrugged, his face slackening of emotion, and he took another taste of his Firewhiskey before answering, "To be blunt, I never supported Potter or the D – or You-Know-Who."

Though he had _not_ supported Lord Voldemort in his pursuits, he still _had _gotten into the habit of calling him the Dark Lord, and had been trying to cut this habit so people would not get the wrong impression of him. But from the shrewd look in Aberforth's blue eyes, it seemed the barman knew what he had been about to say.

"I never openly declared loyalty to either side," Theodore went on. "Unfortunately, not declaring a side seems to make people think I am just as my father is – was – and this has made life very difficult within the past months, always being cast in relation to him."

Aberforth jerked his head. "I get it, kid."

And Theodore knew that Aberforth Dumbledore did get it, in one way or another, but the thought didn't cheer or upset him either way. "And with him – gone," he mumbled, "it seems even worse than ever, oddly."

"Your dad's passed on?" Aberforth inquired, gutturally.

"Yeah, he has," said Theodore, watching the amber liquid in his mug swirl as he swished it around, before lifting it to his lips again and taking a taste.

"I'm sorry," Aberforth offered.

Theodore shrugged. "Never made much of a difference to me when he was around anyway," he said, and he was slightly amazed at how, like always, he was able to sound so indifferent even as his old wounds prickled, though just a tad. "Either way, I have to deal with what he's done, and try to pick up the pieces of my life again. Well, not again – " and here he laughed, darkly " – because I doubt I had much of one to begin with. So build one from scratch, I suppose."

"Here's to you, and may both luck and perseverance be with you," said Aberforth, raising the towel he was wiping a glass with into the air, in a gesture of salute.

"Say," said Theodore, struck with an idea, and he leaned closer across the counter towards the barman. "You wouldn't – happen to need any help around here, would you?"

Aberforth's bushy eyebrows disappeared slightly under his tangle of gray hair. "Help with what?"

"You know, running the bar, cleaning up, keeping the rooms nice, that sort of thing."

"Are you begging me for a job, kid?"

"I was thinking more of asking lightly, not begging: but yes, I would like to work here, if you would take me on."

"I've never had an assistant before," said Aberforth warily, stowing away the dishtowel he had been cleaning with.

"Well, you know how that Muggle saying goes: there has to be first timers in every – no, that's not it, it was: there's a time for a first and then a second helping – no, damn it, that's not right either – "

"There's a first time for everything?" Aberforth supplied, unenthusiastic.

"Yes, that one. So, what do you say? Will you hire me?"

Aberforth frowned down at the drink he was pouring, before passing it to a new customer.

"It wouldn't have to be for long," Theodore persisted. "Just for a few days or so, that's as long as I usually work at any of these places. I just need a few days' cash to keep me going for the next couple of days, and then I move on to get the money for the next upcoming days, and so on and so forth. No one ever wants me for longer than that – I guess they think I'll murder them all in their beds if I get too comfy. I just need a little money, a few days work, if you can help a poor chap?" He lifted his eyebrows in irony, but also in seriousness.

"Shouldn't you be trying to find a more permanent job?" Aberforth asked him. "You look pretty young to be acting a nomad."

"I'm eighteen," said Theodore, "and these days I'm just taking what I can get. I mean, if I were more ambitious, I could probably work to get a job that was steady – but _Merlin_, the hours I would have to spend convincing people of my clean hands and soul and whatnot, and then continuing to deal with their prejudices – I'm just not up for it."

"Kid, I'm no person to be giving life lectures on anything, but you can't go through life with that kind of attitude," said Aberforth, looking at him seriously. "This is _your_ life, and you only got one."

"Look," said Theodore, staring back with just as much intensity, just as much solemnity, "being perfectly, completely honest, I really don't care what I do each day, what I do with my life. I mean nothing to everyone else, I mean nothing to myself, and that's okay – people will do as they want, regardless of what I have or haven't done. So what's the point?"

Aberforth shook his head, despondently, but kept quiet as he busied himself with counting out some change from his pocket.

Theodore had always hated it when adults shook their head at him like that, as if they were so much smarter, so much wiser: as if he had no idea what he was talking about because he had not seen the world as they had, or whatever other crap they thought.

"What is the point of taking a stand on something, when you're just going to get hurt or murdered because of it?" Theodore challenged the barman, slightly riled. "What is the point of _not_ taking a stand on something, when people are just going to liken you and your beliefs to someone else's? What is the point of doing anything yourself, when everyone else will _do it for you_ no matter what?"

"That's not true, lad," said Aberforth quietly. "There's always a choice to keep fighting. It's something I struggled with myself, both in our most recent war and the one with Grindewald, always having to choose whether or not to be strong – but there is always a choice. You can't just roll over on your back and moan that you're defeated when you haven't even fought."

"You're diverting the subject, and you're missing the point," said Theodore.

"Oh, am I?" said Aberforth, who did not seem to think he was doing either, judging by the look on his face.

"Do you have a job here for me, or not?" Theodore asked, exasperated, diverting the subject himself this time.

Aberforth considered him for a long moment with intense blue eyes, then sighed heavily. "You'll get five Sickles a day, unless you can impress me," he muttered gruffly. "You can start your job by washing the floor, eh? It's been needing a good washing. Here's the key to the room you can stay in," he added, throwing Theodore a rusted old key.

Theodore caught the key, stored it away in his pocket, and got to his feet, grinning. "Thanks, sir."

"Oh, 'sir' now, is it?" Aberforth snorted.

"What would you prefer?"

"Aberforth is fine. And what do you want to be called by?"

"Theodore, Nott, whatever strikes your fancy. So, do you have a broom or anything for the floor?"

"In the closet upstairs, to your immediate right."

"Great." Theodore grinned again. Aberforth did not; he still seemed rather disgruntled as he gazed upon his new employee. "Hey, look, this is going to work out fine," Theodore said. "I can tell we're going to get along fine for our next few days together."

Aberforth grunted.


	2. And So It Rises

Theodore Nott did just as he had told the old barman he would do: he spent five days working diligently and steadily at whatever Aberforth requested. Be it cleaning up the rooms upstairs, or washing the windows, or serving drinks to customers, or cooking some simple food, or anything, Theodore did it. On the morning of the sixth day, Theodore announced to the barman that he was leaving. Aberforth paid him the salary he had racked up over the days, Theodore walked out the door, and that was that.

Well, that was that for a _while_, anyway.

For though Theodore went on from the Hog's Head to spend four days at Flourish and Blotts, then two days at the Leaky Cauldron, and then another six at Zonko's Joke Shop (with two days of mere wandering), he somehow found himself walking back to the old man and his pub two weeks after he had taken leave of there.

He sat upon the same stool as he had fourteen days ago, his cloak drawn tight around him, his body still shivering from the October draft outside as he adjusted to the warmth of the indoors. What was he doing back here? He had made an agreement with Aberforth, he had said he would work for a few days and then flee. And yet, he had returned. Scurried back like some coward dog with his tail between his legs. Well, not really. He hadn't asked to work at the bar again. All he had asked for was a drink, which Aberforth was currently pouring for him. And though the barman had said nothing to him so far other than "two Sickles", Theodore could tell his thoughts were wandering to places other than the Firewhiskey he was about to serve his customer.

Aberforth passed him a glass, full nearly to the brim of the delicious liquid. "Here you are."

"Thanks," said Theodore, promptly taking a swig, giving a slight shudder of pleasure as his sorrow and misery was washed away by the alcohol.

Aberforth gave a 'hmph' of acknowledgement, then sat down behind the bar counter, and began calculating sums and such for his business in a little book. They passed the time in this way for quite a while: Theodore sipping and gazing around absently, occasionally asking the barman for a refill; Aberforth adding and subtracting and divvying and squaring and multiplying and who-even-knew-what into his book, in-between presenting his customers with food and drink.

Theodore had just polished off his third glass, contemplating whether he should order a fourth or save the money for tomorrow, in case he was not able to find work somewhere the next day – when Aberforth closed his accounting book and muttered, in no particular direction, "Fresh bedding and sheets is in the closet with the mop."

Theodore only stared at the man in a mildly intoxicated fashion, unsure who Aberforth was speaking to, or if he was even speaking to anyone at all. After several pregnant seconds, Aberforth looked up from the counter-top, meeting the younger man's eyes.

"Well?" Aberforth grunted. "You just going to sit there, or what, lad?"

"Were you – talking to me?" Theodore stuttered.

"I wasn't talking to the table, was I?" Aberforth retaliated in a rough, dry manner.

"Fresh bedding and sheets . . .?" Theodore echoed dimly, confused.

"The guests in 5A, 7A, and 10B have all checked out," Aberforth informed him, getting to his feet as a new customer came through the door. "So the bed sheets need to be changed."

"Ooo-kay," said Theodore slowly, still not processing coherent thought, wondering desperately what the old man was going on about. _Maybe you should cut down on the whiskey, Nott,_ he thought sardonically to himself.

Aberforth stared at him, blinked, then continued to stare, as though he had never met a thicker person in his life. "You going to change the bedding or not, kid?" he finally burst out, impatient.

Theodore tilted his head slightly. "What?"

"Change – the – beddings," said Aberforth in impossibly slow tones, as he poured wine for a new customer and handed them the glass.

"Sir – Aberforth – I don't work here anymore."

Aberforth's expression remained unswayed, blank, flat. "You came back, didn't you?"

"Only for a drink."

"Really?" said Aberforth skeptically.

"Yep."

Aberforth studied him for a moment. "You got a steady job yet?"

"I don't really think it's a stranger's business to know that sort of thing about me," Theodore returned, his back going straight and rigid, in a semblance of a proud gentleman who had just been seriously degraded.

"Strangers, eh?" said Aberforth, with a peculiar grin. "And what exactly would be a stranger, kid? Were the Death Eaters you grew up around, were they strangers to you? What about the other kids at Hogwarts with you, were they? Are these people who keep firing you because of who you're related to, are they strangers to you?

"What is a stranger?" Aberforth went on, pausing for only a split second, in which Theodore tried and failed to reply to him. "Is it someone who doesn't know you, and doesn't want to? Is it someone who doesn't know you, and wants to? Or is it someone who doesn't want to know you, and so only sees what they want to based on that fact?"

"Look, you're making my heard hurt," Theodore grumbled, and he did, indeed, suddenly have a pounding headache, though this may have been more from his own sorrows than from the prattling old man.

"Then let me ask you something simple," said Aberforth, putting his elbows on the counter and leaning in towards Theodore. The blue orbs penetrated deep into his own, astoundingly clear even behind dirty spectacles, spearing him to the spot.

"Do you believe in second chances, Theodore?" Aberforth asked quietly.

The intense blue was too much. Theodore drew back a little, stumbling over his words: "I-I guess so."

"What about first chances?"

"S-sure."

"You don't sound very sure of yourself."

"The questions sort of came out of the blue."

"Shouldn't you know the answers already, though?"

"I'm not that quick on my feet."

"But aren't these the sorts of things you've wondered about before? Pondered on other occasions?"

"Would I deeply offend you if I said no?"

"No, you wouldn't. The person you would probably offend more is yourself."

The pounding pain in Theodore's head had increased to a full-blown drum beat. "How do you figure that one?"

"You said it yourself, kid, two weeks ago: people are constantly judging you, whether you do anything or not. You can try to change their opinions though: sometimes it will work, and sometimes it won't. But you have to know your own position on the matter first. If you aren't willing to do to others as you want done to yourself, you're barking up the wrong tree.

"A lot of people aren't willing to give others second chances. The person makes one mistake, one error, and that's it, they're branded as one way for the rest of their life. But a lot of people – though they don't realize it – not only don't give second chances to others, but they don't give them first chances either. They don't let the person do anything to make an impression: they judge them only on what they know beforehand, or what they think they know, at least. Like you being judged on your last name. So that's why I'm asking. That's why I'm asking if you believe in second glances, second considerations, second chances. Or if you even believe in the first round of those little concepts."

The old male and the younger one stared at each other for a long moment; the former fervidly, the latter rather blankly, for once in his life thrown for an answer. Then, finally, Aberforth drew back; and, as though nothing had just taken place, grabbed several empty glasses and began wiping them down with a dishtowel.

Theodore sat motionless, trying to mull over what the older man had just said. He made his head hurt even worse by more thinking, however; and after much silence, he finally spoke up again: "I want seven Sickles each day this time."

"Go get the beddings," was Aberforth's only reply, without looking up from the glass he was polishing.

* * *

Yet again, Theodore worked five solid days at the Hog's Head, throwing all his energy into the tasks placed in front of him, trying not to think on the old man's words. But he did think back on them: he thought back on them often. And though he did not know what to think of them, precisely, he did still think of them.

Second chances. First chances. Did he give them to others? Others sure as hell didn't give them to him. But maybe he didn't deserve them in the first place. Did he? But could he really expect them to give him chances if he himself did not know whether to give himself a chance?

He was confusing himself, just as the barman had confused him, and so he worked extra hard at his jobs in an effort to avoid his crushing thoughts, even though they continued to pursue him endlessly, like wolves on the prowl.

As the sixth morning of his stay at the Hog's Head dawned, Theodore packed up his few belongings in his duffel and headed down the stairs. Aberforth watched him approach with a guarded, narrowed gaze.

"Leaving?" the old man asked in his typical gruff tone.

"Yes," said Theodore.

For a moment, Theodore thought Aberforth was going to object to this, start in lecturing again. But the barman only jerked his head once, then unlocked his till and counted out some money, which he then handed over to Theodore. "Your earnings," he said shortly.

"Thank you," said Theodore, curling his fingers over the coins, expecting them to fill him with the usual satisfaction and happiness. For after all, his having money meant that he was now able to purchase his favorite thing in the world: alcohol. Usually his pay-days stuffed him full of joy at the notion that more Firewhiskey was in his future; yet today, he found that the coins brought him none of this.

He stared at Aberforth, who had turned back to polishing his wine glasses. Theodore expected the barman to say some parting words to him – or was he _hoping_ the man would? But whether Theodore expected or hoped for a good-bye, it did not matter, for Aberforth gave him no final words, merely continued on wiping the mugs, his eyes steady upon them. And so, seeing no other real options, Theodore turned and exited the pub.

And so, a new pattern was established: Theodore Nott continued with his sporadic working, laboring a few days here and then another few there, picking up enough money to keep him going along the way. Yet, it was slightly different. It was slightly different, because now, he always had a place to return to.

In a sense, at least.

The Hog's Head was _no_ home, that was for certain.

But now, every few days – or sometimes every few weeks – Theodore would return to the Hog's Head to work. He would stay there for yet another five days, and then move on. He only went whenever he was having a particularly hard time finding a job, when he had been wandering the streets for several days unemployed.

It was strange, in a way, knowing there was always a place he could return to if things were rough. But it was strange in a good way, in a nice way. He hadn't had such a feeling of security in a long while, not since the end of the war.

October whirled into November, November swished by to allow December's entrance, and still Theodore's life passed in the same routine of odd and irregular jobs, though every so often he returned to Aberforth and his pub for work. Aberforth refrained from comment on the young man's work life, and on anything related to glances and chances and whatever-the-hell-else-he'd-said before, only speaking to give Theodore his tasks and such.

It was a morning in mid-December when Theodore was making to depart yet again from the Hog's Head. He strolled down the stairs to meet Aberforth by the counter, as per usual, so as to collect his pay.

"I'm leaving today," Theodore told the old man, though really, these words were quite unneeded. He always left the morning of his sixth day, there was really no need to announce when he was going to go. Aberforth knew when he would leave. They both knew.

Instead of moving for the till, however, Aberforth raised his prickly eyebrows, casting his eyes out the windows. "Kid, have you looked outside lately? You can't possibly think you're leaving today."

Theodore looked outside, looked back at the barman. "What should a little snow have to do with my leaving here?"

"A little snow?" Aberforth chuckled, somewhat hostilely. "That is not a little snow, that is a full-blown snow blizzard."

"I can handle it," said Theodore stiffly. "Now if you would please pay me my money, I will be going – "

"You feeling suicidal, or something? The snow is already three feet high on the ground, and it's still coming down in torrents. No one is outside, and lad, you should take a hint from that."

Theodore stared hard at Aberforth, who stared right back, some peculiar and silent battle of wills taking place, though over what Theodore was not exactly sure. At last, Theodore lowered his eyes, and through gritted teeth, ground out, "I suppose . . . I should stay a little longer, then."

"I suppose," Aberforth echoed dryly, in agreement. "And while you wait, you can change the beddings in room 2B to pass the time, eh?"

"Sure," Theodore muttered, and, jaw still clenched, marched back up the stairs to do just that.

Theodore did stay 'a little longer', just as he said. Actually, as it happened, he stayed slightly longer than 'a little longer'. For even after the snow storm had stopped, and the snow on the ground was started to melt away and turn to slush, as he peered out the window, he found he did not want to leave his current place. And so, he stayed.

He didn't tell Aberforth of his decision not to leave. But he didn't have to. There are some things that just don't have to be said.


	3. And So It Continues

And so, he stayed.

He was slightly loathe to admit it, but it felt nice, not having to get up and leave his area of residence every few days. To wake up each morning, see the faint sunlight streaming through the windows, and know that ahead of him was another day at the Hog's Head, and not another day fruitlessly trying to find work.

Granted, working at the Hog's Head was no great deal – it was, no matter how much cleaning and polishing Theodore was made to do, a rather dismal and dirty pub, with company that was usually less than pleasant (putting it mildly). This 'pleasant' company, of course, included the barman himself, who usually did little more than grunt and speak in phrases that consisted of as few words as possible get his point across.

Theodore was not particularly happy with his work, but he did enjoy the steady income, and that was enough reason for him to get through his day-to-day. He had even been cutting down on his alcohol intake slightly (though this was partly because of the scathing glares he had received each time he ordered whiskey from Aberforth. Which had meant that he would need to visit other pubs to buy his alcohol, and, being rather lazy, he usually did not want to do this).

"Kid, go take care of that woman, eh?" Aberforth called over to Theodore one mid-December afternoon. Aberforth was busy booking rooms for several customers.

Theodore had been occupied washing down several tables, but at Aberforth's instruction, he abandoned this task and moved towards the little table where a young female had just sat down.

"Hi," Theodore greeted. "Can I get you anything?"

She glanced up at him from a small notebook that was sitting on the table. She looked somewhat familiar, though he couldn't place where he knew her from. "Just a butterbeer, please," she said.

Theodore fetched her requested drink, and returned with it in hand. "Here you go."

"Thanks," she said, and as she met his gaze again, her eyes flickered with slight confusion, seeming to see him for the first time; then soon the confusion turned to recognition. "Oh, hello, I didn't know who you were at first. Nott, isn't it?"

He nodded.

"Cho Chang," she replied, with a faint, uncertain smile. "I was at Hogwarts with you? Not in the same year, but . . .?"

"Oh, yeah." That must be why he knew her face, but did not know the name. Just one of the many people at Hogwarts whom had always been a face to him, just a face, not a strange face but not entirely familiar either. Did that make her a stranger to him? Oddly, Aberforth's words from weeks ago resounded in his ears:

_What is a stranger? Is it someone who doesn't know you, and doesn't want to? Is it someone who doesn't know you, and wants to? Or is it someone who doesn't want to know you, and so only sees what they want to based on that fact?_

"You don't remember me, do you?" she asked, watching him.

"No, no, I do," he said quickly, attempting a smile. Great, she had spoken again. Did that mean she wanted to have a conversation? Theodore wasn't much of a chatter; all his years as a loner had not exactly given him much training in socializing with others. As she was a customer, however, he supposed he ought to try and have a short talk with her, seeing as that seemed to be what she wanted. "Hogwarts. Yeah. Hufflepuff, weren't you?"

"Ravenclaw," said Cho.

_Damn it._

"Erm, right," said Theodore, blustering for words. "So, um, how've you been since Hogwarts? What are you up to?"

"Things have been all right," said Cho with a shrug. "I'm working as a reporter for Witch Weekly now."

"That's pretty neat," said Theodore, feeling this sort of comment was supposed to have such a reply.

"It's mostly gopher work at the moment, I'm still working my way up."

"Well, you're writing some stuff, aren't you?" He gestured to her journal that was sitting on the table.

"Small stuff," she said, tone uncaring even though a small smile had appeared on her face. "Little side articles and whatnot. So, what have you been doing?"

Theodore shifted his weight, slouching slightly to his left. "Lot of odd jobs, mostly. Now I'm working here though, full-time."

"That's nice," said Cho.

He shrugged, his eyes on his shoes, increasing uncomfortable with the forced conversation. "I guess so."

There was a pause.

"Well, I've got . . ." said Cho, apologetically, motioning to her notebook. "You know, work. It's pretty . . . demanding. Especially since the end of the war – " She stopped abruptly, and flushed, lowering her eyes briefly before meeting his gaze again. "I'm sorry, I didn't – "

"S'okay," said Theodore promptly, unfeelingly. He really did not want sympathy.

Another pause.

"Well, enjoy your drink," Theodore said at last. "Give a shout if you want a refill or some food or anything."

"Yes," she agreed quickly, and with a last fixed smile in her direction, Theodore scurried off and resumed his washing of the tables, half-wishing he could transform into one. Good Merlin, what an ordeal.

He should have just given her the drink and left. It's what his several-year-younger self would have done; he had always used to shy away from people, from any situation that would require true interaction. But no, instead he had to try and be _kind_ and _courteous_ and _polite_. Screw being kind, it hadn't done any good! She probably wished he had left her alone in the first place now.

It was about fifteen or twenty minutes before Cho Chang took leave of the Hog's Head, stashing away her notebook and moving quickly out the door. Theodore was behind the counter when she left, and he kept his eyes steadily downward, fixing them on the drink he was pouring for the current customer, before handing it to them.

"Good God, kid, what was all that about?"

Theodore jumped. He had not heard Aberforth come up behind him.

"What?" said Theodore defensively, turning around to face the barman, his back to the counter.

Aberforth just shook his head, and moved to pour himself a glass of wine.

"What? What'd I do?" Theodore persisted.

Aberforth raised his eyebrows at his drink. "Hmm, weak, very weak. And entirely too fruity."

"Look, you can't just say something and then ignore me like this – " Theodore told him, irate. "Besides, I – that was – I was trying to be polite, having a conversation, it seemed to be what she wanted – I was only – "

"Can't serve this to any people, that's for sure," Aberforth muttered to the cup. "Maybe the goats would like it though . . ."

"I could have just ignored her, but that would've been rude – I never knew her very well, but I mean, it's not like I didn't know her, and saying something seemed to be expected – "

"Maybe some port instead," Aberforth mumbled, dumping his glass's contents into a dish and pouring himself a drink from a fresh bottle before taking a sip. "Yeah, much better."

" – and it's none of your business anyway," Theodore concluded, fumblingly, messily tying up his very poor explanation.

"Whatever you say, kid," said Aberforth, speaking to him at last, before turning around, dish in hand, and moving outside towards his goats.

Theodore stood for a moment, quaking slightly with indignation, as he debated what to do.

"I'm going to leave!" he then shouted after the barman's back, threateningly (though also somewhat childishly). "I'm going to pack up and leave this place and not come back!"

"You do that!" Aberforth shouted back to him.

Theodore went back to cleaning the tables, scowling, slamming the dishtowel rather harder than needed against the wood surfaces.

* * *

"Seven Sickles for the lot."

"Seven Sickles!" the seller cried, outraged. "That's barbaric, that is! See here, young man, the price for dragon meat by the pound is fifteen Sickles – and seeing as you have a pound of dragon meat and a dozen eggs, I'd say you'd best give me none of your cheek and cough up the full price of twenty-one Sickles."

"Seven Sickles for the lot," Theodore repeated, his expression unchanging. Aberforth had told him that this was what he was to pay, no more, and Theodore intended to follow this.

"I'll knock it down to an even twenty Sickles, and that's all," the woman clerk responded.

Theodore shook his head. "Seven," he insisted, haggling.

"Twenty."

"Seven."

"Twenty."

"Seven."

". . . . Nineteen."

"Seven."

"Look, young man, I don't have time for this, there are other customers waiting to be helped – "

"Really?" said Theodore, looking around in mock surprise, a smirk twitching at his lips at the sight behind him: no one was standing there. Several other witches and wizards were standing in the shop, still looking over at the various items, but none were in line save for him.

"You're shooing them all off!" the woman said, rearing up defensively. "Now you can either give me the fair price, or leave."

"Seven Sickles," said Theodore calmly.

"That is not – "

"I don't have any other money, ma'am," said Theodore, widening his eyes at her beseechingly, trying to paint the perfect picture of innocence with his expression. "And this food – I need it, ma'am, please – and this money here, this is all I got – "

The statement of him having no money was actually true – he did not have any other money in his pocket aside from the seven Sickles Aberforth had given him – but he did have some more money stashed away in his room at the Hog's Head. But, you have to do what's needed done for your job, right?

"Save the sob story," said the woman harshly. "If you were as poor as you're saying, you wouldn't be trying to buy dragon meat, of all things, there's plenty of cheaper meats."

"Please, ma'am, please take these seven Sickles – "

"I will not – "

Their conversation was interrupted, however, by a slender, olive-skinned hand being slapped down beside Theodore's palms, which were resting against the counter's edge. The hand pulled away, revealing a cluster of fourteen silver Sickles.

"This'll cover it, I think?" said a lax female voice near his right ear, and turning his head, Theodore saw Cho Chang standing beside him, smiling over at the cashier. "When you add this man's seven Sickles to them, that is?"

The woman glared at Cho, but could hardly turn her away, so with a jerky nod she consented. "All right."

"That's not necessary – " said Theodore hastily, to Cho.

"It's fine," she said simply.

_But it isn't fine,_ Theodore thought. Still, it was too late for him to object further: the sales woman had already taken their money, and handed him his bag of purchases – and Cho was already walking out the door. He rapidly chased after her.

"Hey, wait! Chang!"

She didn't slow or look around at him, but he managed to fall into step beside her after a few moments.

"Yes?" she asked, looking forward.

"You really didn't have to do that – I'll make it up to you, if you come to the Hog's Head really quick, I'll give you back the Sickles – "

"It's fine," Cho said again expressionlessly, still keeping her gaze frontward, not looking at him. "Really."

"Can't I just – "

"Truly, it's all right. Now I don't mean to be rude, but I've got to hurry off – "

"Why did you give me the money if you loathe me so?" Theodore burst out, impatient with her.

There was a slight quiet in the conversation; she still didn't look at him though. "I don't loathe you, Nott."

"Could've fooled me," Theodore muttered dryly.

"I don't. Now, I really should be going – "

Theodore cut her off. He was tired of her beating around the bush. He was tired of everyone beating around the bush his whole life: his father; the kids and staff and Hogwarts; the other Death Eaters; shopkeepers; Ministry workers; _Prophet_ writers; Aberforth Dumbledore; all of them. He wanted answers, answers to everything, on what precisely even he was not sure anymore; his frustration at the situation was too big to really understand or comprehend.

"You pay for most of my purchase, but then you turn up your nose when I try to talk to you. _What_ am I supposed to think, Chang?"

She stopped walking, and finally, _finally_, turned to look at him, her brown eyes pensive as they took him in. He did likewise, halting his steps and turning his body towards her.

"What _do_ you think?" she asked at last, after a moment of silence.

"I don't know!" Theodore exclaimed, then drew in a deep breath, trying to calm himself. "You seem to dislike me, I thought you did, and it still seems like you do – but then you went and gave me money. I don't understand it. I don't understand any of it."

"I didn't give you the money because I like _or_ dislike you," said Cho slowly.

"Then why did you give it to me?"

"I guess because it seemed like the right thing to do," she said, after a slight hesitation.

Theodore snorted; he didn't believe in 'right' and 'wrong' anymore. Hadn't believed in them for a long time, in fact.

Cho's face hardened at his noise of ridicule. "Well, if that's how you want to act about it – "

"No, don't be like that – listen, I just – "

"What?" Cho snapped, irritable yet also interested: and it suddenly occurred to him that she probably found him just as frustrating and perplexing as he did her.

Theodore took in a large breath through his nose. "I just . . . don't understand it. Your motives, your actions."

"Sometimes, I don't either," said Cho, both bitterly and jokingly, and her eyes were suddenly rather moist. "I'm just doing the best I can, Nott, all right? I don't need you critiquing and analyzing my every movement."

He hunched his shoulders. "I – I'm sorry." He didn't think he'd ever said that before while meaning it.

Her face remained hard for a long moment, then her features softened slightly. "Me too. This week, we both haven't really been very. . . . I mean, I know we knew each other at school, it's not like we were strangers, but we still never really. . . . But now . . ."

"Yeah," said Theodore, "I know."

He turned around and started strolling slowly along the street again. To his slight surprise, Cho began walking beside him. They moved along in silence for some time, their shoulders hunched around their necks for extra warmth, heads bowed and eyes following their feet, the cold winter winds blowing subtlety in the trees.

"So, how have you been since Hogwarts?" Cho finally inquired. "I mean, really been. Not just, you know, where're you're working and such. If you don't mind me asking," she added hastily, glancing over at him.

"No, I don't mind you asking," Theodore replied slowly. "It's more if I mind responding."

"Oh," said Cho.

"Things have been . . . interesting, I guess," Theodore told her, haltingly. "After Hogwarts, I mostly just . . . wandered around a lot. A tramp, you might've called me, but not really by choice."

"I don't understand," said Cho, puzzled.

"No one really wanted to hire me," Theodore elaborated slightly. "And if they did hire me, it was never for more than a few days. Because of my father," he went on, when she still looked befuddled, and her eyes went dark with the sudden understanding. "They heard his name, my name – and they instantly associated me with him. I mean, can't really blame them, I never did anything to distance myself from him, but I never took a stand _with_ the Death Eaters either. So they all likened him to me, I guess, which really made working a problem."

"I'm sorry," Cho offered, seeming sincere.

Theodore looked down at his shoes as he shrugged. "It was . . . partly my fault too, I guess. I mean, I never would really – I would never do much to try and convince them otherwise."

"Still," said Cho, "it must've been rough."

He nodded, still looking downward. "So, what about you?"

"Oh, just dealing with the aftermath of war, same as everyone else," said Cho, and as he looked up from his feet he noticed she was watching some point above her head with a fixated air as she spoke.

"How so?" he asked.

"Well, you know." She glanced at him once, then turned her eyes away. "Destruction, deaths . . ."

"Whose deaths?"

"My – my mom's."

_I wonder who's hands did that,_ he thought, his stomach sinking, as the faces of the many Death Eaters he knew so well flashed through his mind. "I'm really sorry," he told her, before he recalled something else. "And a few years ago – Diggory was killed – " He stopped. "That was a really insensitive thing for me to say, I'm sorry."

"It's all right, that was years ago."

"I'm sure it still hurts."

"It does, but not as much. And I've learned that always blubbering about the past, and wallowing in what has already happened – doesn't – it doesn't do any good, it doesn't change anything."

He nodded his head. They lapsed back into silence as they walked on.

"I really do have to get back to work now," said Cho with a slightly grimace, as she checked her watch. "But maybe I'll . . ." She glanced at him uncertainly.

"Maybe you'll stop in to pay for more of my purchases again?" Theodore suggested, grinning wryly.

She smiled back at him. "Something like that. Well, see you later – Theodore."

"Bye, Cho," said Theodore, and even after she had Disapparated, he found himself still smiling at the spot where she had just stood.

* * *

**A/N: Personally, I've never really liked Cho Chang, she always seemed like such a whining crybaby. However, people do grow up and change, even Cho. I hope I pulled off a believable characterization for her. Please feel free to leave a review letting me know what you thought of how she was portrayed here, and what you think of the story overall as well. :)**


	4. And So It Descends

Surprisingly (to Theodore, at least), Cho _did_ see him again. Although this time, their meeting each other was much more deliberate than a chance run-in at the market.

He had not known she would be coming, but during the afternoon of the 22nd, she suddenly breezed through the door. She smiled and waved at him, from where he stood behind the bar counter. He grinned back feebly, and continued mixing drinks, though with much less vigor than before. His eyes kept drifting towards her table inattentively as he went on with his task. He watched as Aberforth served her a whiskey, and then the barman came to stand beside him.

"Go on, then, lad," Aberforth murmured, as they stood together.

"Hmm?" said Theodore, looking at the older man out of the sides of his eyes.

Aberforth jerked his head. "Go talk to her."

"I'm working, Ab."

"So take a break," said Aberforth, rolling his eyes towards the heavens in exasperation. "Merlin, kid, when will you ever learn anything?"

Theodore considered snapping back a retort to this, reconsidered, then put down the wine bottles on the counter and traipsed over to Cho Chang. "Mind if I join you?" he asked, gesturing to the empty seat across from her.

"Go ahead," she said, waving at him to sit, which he did, folding his hands on the table as he looked over at her.

"So . . ." he said.

"So . . ." she repeated back lightly, teasingly, taking a swig of her drink. "How have you been?"

"Fair," said Theodore. He lowered his voice, and, with a look of mock fear back at Aberforth, whispered, "But, I swear, that one's about to drive me up the wall."

Cho giggled.

"It's all grunting and barking and pointing, 'do this', 'do that', and never any more words than that. But, it is a steady job, and that's a hell of a lot more than I could say about anywhere else."

"You must at least _sort of_ like it here," Cho said.

"I guess," said Theodore uncommitingly. "I mean, it's not like I'm much more social than Ab is, so I guess really we're the perfect team, in that sense."

She smiled.

"How about you?" he asked her.

"All right," she replied. "Haven't moved up in my job, but I think I caught the main editor's eye the other day with one of my pieces that I presented to her, for consideration in a larger section than my usual sidebars."

"That's great," said Theodore encouragingly. "What was the piece on?"

Cho swallowed, her dark-colored eyes uncertain. "About how our society is healing from the war, and what still needs to be done."

Theodore considered this for a long moment. "That's . . . that sounds very depthful."

"I think you mean deep," Cho suggested, smiling.

"Whatever the correct tense of the word is," he reciprocated. "So, she liked it?"

"Yes, I think she did. I wrote about how the Ministry is being reconstructed and built on new ideals, and about all the people who are being freed and the buildings that are being rebuilt. But I also described all the hurt, the pain, the scars that are still lingering, and what we need to do about them."

"And what do you think we need to do about them?" Theodore asked quietly.

"We have to come together," said Cho, just as softly, her eyes boring into his. "We have to come together and be there for one another, no matter our different needs or sufferings. We have to stop acting as though we are perfectly whole when we are not. We have to accept that we are broken, but we need to learn to move past our shattered edges and chipped corners, and go on with life, because then the suffering and pain and death will not have been a waste."

"That . . . sounds like a very powerful article," said Theodore in a somewhat strangled voice. "I might have to pick up a copy of _Witch Weekly_ just to see it."

"No guarantee it _will _be published," she replied, lowering her eyes to her drink as she swirled it around in the cup, before taking another taste.

They sat in silence then; she watching her whiskey, he watching her. And after a lull of quiet, he felt the need to ask her a question.

"Cho, do you believe in second chances?"

She looked up to address his gaze directly. "Yes," she said, firm and without hesitation.

"What about first chances?"

"First chances?" she repeated back, quizzical.

"Yeah. I mean, when you first meet someone, do you give them a chance? Or do you form an opinion on them instantly, based on what you already know about them, or what you think you know?"

"I would _hope_ I don't just judge them instantly," she responded. "I would hope I'm not that biased or narrow-minded."

Theodore nodded slowly, contemplating this. "What about for yourself? Do you give yourself second chances? Or first ones?"

She furrowed her brow in thought. "I usually try and accomplish or experience something myself before I comment on it. So, yes, I would say I give myself first chances. But it's a lot harder to give yourself second chances – I mean, we are usually our own worst critic. We are most often the last people to forgive and trust ourselves again, even after everyone else has moved on."

"What if we can't tell if we need forgiveness?" Theodore whispered. "What if we can't tell if we're supposed to forgive ourselves, if there's even anything to forgive? What if you just hate yourself for not making any mistakes, because you never _did anything_ at all? Can you have done something that needs forgiveness if you never did anything?"

"That depends if you think being inanimate is a crime," she whispered back, her eyes wide.

"Is it?"

"I think it depends on the situation. But in general, yes, I think not taking a stand on a subject matter can be just as bad as taking the wrong side."

He lowered his head, staring hard at the table, at his folded hands.

"But if you can forgive yourself for doing nothing, then all will be well," Cho told him, breathily, and she placed one of her hands over his folded fingers.

He looked up and met her eyes, which were still set huge, but were not teary.

"How do I do it?" he asked simply.

She shook her head. "That's where I can't help you."

He glanced back down at the table, at her hand over his.

"You just . . ." she began, and then broke off.

His eyes moved upward, probing hers. "Go on. Please."

"You have to do . . . whatever works for you. Find it in yourself: through others, through places, wherever helps. You have come a long way, you know," she added, smiling gently.

Theodore was surprised. "I have?"

"Sure. I mean, I never knew you very well at Hogwarts – but you were always very introverted, you never seemed to socialize with anyone unless you had to. You skirted around the school, doing what was required of you, but you never . . . I don't know . . . showed much emotion? Anyway, you have been really different this week – I know you may not see it, but you're different, you're animated, you may not love life but you're finding joy in it regardless. I don't know if that's due to the Hog's Head or Aberforth or what, but it's there – _you're_ there – not just some shell of yourself."

"You're different too, I think," he told her. "Whenever I saw you around Hogwarts, you always seemed very – erm – emotional."

"A moody crybaby, you mean?" she suggested, with a wry smile.

"Well, somewhat," he consented, smiling apologetically. "Especially during your last few years at Hogwarts – you were always so upset. You didn't seem able to move past your grief, or maybe you just didn't want to move past it, I don't know. But now . . . you're so much more alive, and willing to let things go."

"It's taken years, believe me," she said, with a half-laugh.

"Still, you did it. And that's such a . . . that's such a difficult thing to do, after you've lost what was your whole life." He unfolded his hands and turned one of his palms upward on the table, taking her hand within his own, pressing lightly against her fingers.

"So," Cho said quietly, gazing at their entwined grip. "What are you going to do now? I mean, to try and, you know . . . forgive yourself."

He released a breath heavy with decision. He had known what he needed to do before he had even asked her, had had a feeling that eventually, to go on with his life, he would need to do something else first: he would need to revisit a portion of his past.

"I think I need to go visit Azkaban prison," said Theodore quietly.


	5. And So It Ends

"I'm here to visit the former Death Eaters," said Theodore to the guard behind the counter.

The guard raised his eyebrows. "Which one?" he drawled. "They're not all in one cell, you know."

Theodore had not considered the answer to this question before; in his mind, he had somehow pictured all of them being clumped together in one cell, much like some overcrowded Muggle prisons. Apparently, this was not the case.

"I'll see whoever can be seen," Theodore said.

The guard's mouth twisted, and he consulted a dirty clipboard. "Well, let's see. MacNair died last week, Dolohov's going to be a-going any day now, the elder Lestrange has become this shell that never talks, Avery's gone completely batty, Carrow – "

"Who _is_ in a fit condition to speak to me?" Theodore asked.

"Hmph. The other Lestrange is doing okay, I guess. Bit temperamental, chucked his food dish at the wall the other day – "

"Do you mean Rabastan?"

The guard lifted an eyebrow at Theodore's use of the man's first name, but he said, "Yeah, that's him: Rabastan Lestrange. You going to visit him?"

"Yes, I'd like to, thanks."

"Alrighty then." The guard grabbed his key ring and showed Theodore down a long, winding hallway, until finally he stopped at one of the doors. "This here's a high security vault," the guard explained as he fitted the different keys into the many locks and bolts, "so even though you'll be allowed inside, there's an enchantment barrier to keep him from getting too close."

"All right," said Theodore. He figured it would be pointless to tell the man that there was no chance in hell Rabastan would harm the son of Nott Senior.

The guard finished undoing the many keyholes, and the door swung open. "You have twenty minutes," the guard said, as he ushered Theodore inside.

"Thanks," said Theodore, but the guard had already shut the door behind him.

The cell was a miserable little area, consisting of four smooth gray walls. A dirty cot was in one corner, beneath which sat a bedpan. A small barred window was against the far wall, revealing the huge lake the Azkaban prisoners would be forced to cross should they even attempt to escape. Against the bed a thin, scraggly man sat, his back against the wall, his hollowed face turned towards Theodore, eyes squinting in the dim light of the room.

"Is that . . . Theodore?"

"Yeah," said Theodore, "it's me, Rabastan."

"What're you doing here." It barely came out as a question, Rabastan's voice was so flat and wearied.

"I . . . wanted to see you."

"Ha," said Rabastan derisively.

"I did," said Theodore, taking a seat on the rough wooden stool that was against the wall. "How . . . how're you doing?"

"Brilliant," said Rabastan sarcastically. "Never better. Getting locked up in Azkaban really does amazing things to you, Theodore, you should try it sometime. I mean, really, I would know, wouldn't I, having been here a total of three times now, eh?"

Theodore stiffened. "Look, I just – "

"You just what? Just wanted to be friendly? Just wanted to offer your sympathy? I don't want either of them, they won't do me any good."

"I'll skip them over and get straight to the point, then," said Theodore stiffly. He knew he shouldn't be surprised at Rabastan's behavior – how had he really expected him to act, considering his circumstances? Still, it was somewhat of a shock: never could Theodore remember the older man being so bitter and rude to _him_, the son of one of the most prominent Death Eaters there was.

"Go on, then," said Rabastan, indifferent.

"I just wanted to ask you a few things," said Theodore.

"You do that."

Theodore took a deep, preparing breath. "Do you regret anything you've done? As a Death Eater, I mean."

Rabastan snorted. "Would it make any difference?"

"I don't know. I'm just asking."

"No, I don't regret it."

"Even though it landed you here?"

"I regret not running faster from those damn Aurors," said Rabastan sardonically.

"I'm serious, Rabastan."

"So am I. Look, Theodore, I served the Dark Lord nearly my whole life, because it was what I believed in, and that's all there is to it. It'll do no good if you're trying to get me to repent, or something."

"I'm not," said Theodore, "I just . . ."

"Was there anything else?" Rabastan cut him off.

"Yes," said Theodore, firmly. "Do you like yourself?"

"What kind of question is that?"

"It's just a question. Well, do you?"

"Do I like myself? Well, it doesn't really matter, does it. I'm stuck in here _with_ myself for the rest of my life."

"But what's the answer to – "

"There is no answer, Theodore, I am who I am."

"All right," Theodore sighed. "I have one more thing to ask."

Rabastan rolled his eyes.

Theodore swallowed. "Do you believe in second chances?"

Rabastan shrugged. "I don't know. Depends on who I'm supposed to give the second chance to, I suppose."

"What about first chances, do you believe in them?"

"I guess."

"You guess?"

"Yeah, I guess. I don't know, Theodore, I don't have answers to any of these questions, okay? Is that what you're trying to prove, that I'm just a heartless, stupid bastard?"

"Rabastan, stop – "

"Was there anything else?" Rabastan interrupted.

Theodore exhaled slowly. "No, that's all. Sorry for bothering you. I'll leave now."

"Bye," said Rabastan tonelessly, looking annoyed, as Theodore got to his feet and made to leave. But – was it Theodore's imagination – or was there something in Rabastan's eyes that hadn't been there before as he looked upon the younger man, something that was pensive, something that was considering the younger male's words?

Theodore opened the cell door and let himself out, wandering down the long corridors and outside, to where the small rowboat took him back to land. The cold, gray waters lapped against the boat beneath him, and the man controlling the boat sat up front, leaving Theodore space in the back.

Theodore reclined against the wood and looked down at the waters, down into their murky depths. They were so fogged, so grimy, so colorless, and it was impossible to even see a foot beneath the surface. Still, they kept on, they kept crashing against the boat in slow, irregular movements, trudging onward. They may have been soiled, they may have been dirtied, but they kept going, always. They were unclean, impure, yet they had made the choice to continue on with their existence. Well, they hadn't technically made a choice, since they were water and water is not alive – but even so. It was still a choice made by Nature for them to keep on.

Rabastan had chosen not to keep going. So had most of the former Death Eaters, by the sound of it. They had chosen to wallow away, to give up, and to not even think back on what they had done, on what they had committed.

On what they had chosen.

Theodore had chosen nothing. They had chosen something. But he had seen that he could not go through his life choosing nothing. The majority of the Death Eaters had, obviously, not seen this. They had made choices, unlike him: they had made the choice to join the Dark Lord and to do his biddings. And now, now they were making the choice to merely sit by, and not to reflect or consider or anything. Of course, could he really blame them? It was how they had been raised their whole lives: to devote themselves to what they believed was important, and to not consider anything else, ever. Just as he had been raised: to question nothing, to only accept what was, to see things as they were 'supposed' to be seen and not in any other way.

To not give first or second chances to anyone who didn't 'deserve' it.

Including themselves.

The boat landed at the shore. Theodore scrambled out and quickly Apparated into Hogsmeade, walking slowly on his way towards the Hog's Head.

When he pushed open the door to the pub, he was somewhat surprised to see Cho Chang sitting at a table, her face turned towards the doorway. She had wanted to come with him at first, when he'd told her he was going to Azkaban, but he'd insisted that he needed to do it alone, so she'd acquiesced. And yet, here she was, waiting for him to come back, to come back to where he belonged.

"How did it – go?" she asked, as she got to her feet and moved towards him.

"As good as could've been expected," Theodore replied, smiling grimly, and he told her, briefly, about his interaction with Rabastan Lestrange.

When he'd finished, she took his hand and gave it a quick squeeze before letting go, her eyes shimmering as she stared at him. She didn't say anything, she didn't have to. Anything he wanted to know he could see in her face, open with emotion.

Cho stayed a little longer, until she had to leave for work. After she went away, Theodore wandered around the bar to go find Aberforth, finally locating him outside with the goats.

"You're back," stated Aberforth brusquely. He was sitting on a stool, holding a bottle full of milk out to a little baby goat, who was drinking eagerly.

"Yeah, I am," said Theodore, sitting down on a stool several feet from the old man.

Aberforth grunted, but said nothing, only went on with feeding the goat. After some time, he held out the bottle to Theodore. Hesitantly, Theodore took the bottle, and then put out his arm, offering it to another one of the young goats. The kid eyed him for a moment, then scooted forward, taking the end of the bottle in its mouth and sucking gently.

"Goats are so trusting," Theodore observed offhandedly.

"Not if you're cruel to them, they aren't," Aberforth replied.

"But if you're kind to them afterwards – and you really regret the cruel things you did to them before – will they forgive you?" Theodore looked up from the goat he was feeding, and met Aberforth's penetrating gaze.

Aberforth seemed to sense that Theodore was not really asking about the goats, for his eyes were quite knowing as his line face twisted into a smile, and he replied, "Yeah, most of them do."

_-Fin _

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**A/N: Thank you for reading to the end of this story, I hope you have enjoyed. Please leave a review and let me know your thoughts. :)**

**Also, as a side note, this story was originally written for the Winter Tales, Seasons Change contest on Mugglenet Fan-Fiction. And, not to brag or anything, but it won first place overall. -squee- :D**


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